


How Lucky We Are

by dreamlittleyo



Series: Distress and Disarray [37]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Angst, Feelings, M/M, Rank Disparity, Romance, Secret Relationship, Slow Burn, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-13 19:09:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19257403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: In which Hamilton is injured and disappointed in quick succession, and Washington exercises unwelcome discretion.





	How Lucky We Are

Hamilton wakes with an uncomfortable rush, becoming aware of his physical body with dizzying vertigo. Nothing specifically hurts, but somehow _everything_ feels like he’s been dropped through an impulse manifold. He aches, a tired and rumbling exhaustion that leaves him feeling more like a cantankerous old man than a twenty-something fleet officer accustomed to roaming the galaxy at high speed.

There is a disconcerting stretch of seconds in which his eyes refuse to open. His limbs are sluggish too, twitching only grudgingly at first, though vigor returns to them by degrees. He breathes, slow and steady, bracing himself for a greater effort. The after-effects of heavy sedation are familiar, but it still requires deliberate focus to remain calm.

“Alexander?” Washington’s voice cuts through the fog, and Hamilton grows even more determined to recover control of his body.

Finally he manages to blink his eyes open. He’s in sickbay, an observation room, not one of the private ones. Without sitting up to look around—a task he can’t quite manage—he isn’t certain there are no other patients occupying the other beds. His own monitors beep sedately, which means he isn’t in any immediate danger.

Before he can begin to turn his head, Washington’s handsome face fills his field of vision. The general must be sitting directly beside Hamilton’s bed in order to lean so very close. Another moment and Hamilton feels something squeeze his hand atop the covers. The sensation makes him only belatedly aware that Washington is touching him—probably has been since before he regained consciousness.

“What happened?” He’s relieved when the question comes out clear, albeit a little bleary. “Radiation?”

“Yes.” Washington speaks the answer with thunderous quiet. “As well as blood loss so severe you nearly didn’t make it back to the Nelson, and a head injury that even Dr. Schuyler could only look at and say ‘wait and see’. You are lucky to be alive.” Unspoken—requiring no words at all to convey—is the crushing weight of Washington’s relief.

“My head feels fine,” Hamilton protests.

“That’s because you’ve been under medical sedation for _six days_.” Washington crushes his hand with involuntary strength. “Even allowing you to come out of it now was a gamble, but Dr. Schuyler feared keeping you under any longer might do lasting damage.”

Hamilton has hazy memories of a field generator exploding and bringing an entire wall down with it, as a cloud of bitter purple atmosphere swirled into a vulnerable safe house full of terrified citizens.

“Did we get everyone out of the city?” He asks. His memories are too addled to ask more specific questions. He doesn’t know _why_ he was in a bunker full of civilians, let alone what happened after the wall came down. Yes, the detailed mission report will answer his every curiosity, but Hamilton is so fucking tired. He doubts he could stay awake long enough to read it.

“Nearly everyone.” Washington’s intense expression softens. No evacuation is truly perfect. Much as Hamilton wishes they could have gotten the entire population out—much as the flicker of sadness in Washington’s eyes proves he feels the same—the mission was a success. They did everything possible.

Hamilton relaxes into his pillows and turns his hand beneath Washington’s so he can thread their fingers together. An indiscretion, to be sure, but one the medical equipment can’t detect.

“How soon can I leave sickbay?” It’s a multi-layered question, and he has no doubt his general will understand every nuance. Now that Hamilton is awake, he is desperate to be alone with Washington, at last with no force field separating them. They are long overdue to continue their conversation. And while even now Hamilton can feel his eyelids drooping, he wants nothing more than to retire together to the privacy of Washington’s quarters, where he can fall asleep in powerful arms.

There is a moment of hesitation, and the look Washington gives him is such that Hamilton instantly understands he won’t like the answer.

“While you were unconscious, the Nelson received orders for our next assignment.” Washington speaks the words with measured care, imperfectly masking an aura of disappointment. “We are to escort the Federation’s top diplomatic team to and from peace negotiations at the edge of the Regulan Divide.”

Hamilton blinks, slowly processing the information. He won’t ask outright why a diplomatic assignment means they can’t go somewhere private to indulge in the intimacies they’ve both spent so long wanting. But surely he doesn’t need to pose a direct question for Washington follow his confused consternation. When he simply raises his eyebrows in wordless question, his general breathes a barely audible sigh.

“We picked up the diplomatic team yesterday. Nine ambassadors and two fleet admirals.” A pause, perhaps to let the information sink in, and then Washington adds with suspiciously little inflection, “Admiral Dinwiddie’s temporary quarters are directly across the hall from my own.”

Hamilton barely resists the urge to let loose a quiet but emphatic string of profanity as unwelcome understanding penetrates his foggy mental processes.

Even if Hamilton could secure permission to leave sickbay this second, Washington cannot take them both back to his quarters. And for all that Hamilton’s own less luxurious quarters will be at a greater remove, they can’t go there either. A certain brazenness can remain unacknowledged by fellow crew, but they can’t take such a risk when Washington’s immediate superiors are onboard.

It feels like a cruel game the universe is playing with his heart, and the unfairness of it makes Hamilton’s throat tight.

“I know,” Washington says softly, and the way he squeezes Hamilton’s hand feels like reassurance and apology both.

“How long will the negotiations take?” Hamilton manages to ask.

“It’s impossible to say.”

The door hisses open then, and Washington withdraws his hand from Hamilton’s grip, eases back to a more discreet distance. Waits in silence while an ensign in medical blues bustles in. There is an absolute inferno of emotion behind Washington’s eyes, as potent and helpless as Hamilton feels.

Hamilton waits too, and prays for patience he does not possess.

**Author's Note:**

> Prompts: Game, Cantankerous, Rush


End file.
